


Put Your Blood on Ice

by VeteranKlaus



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Levi, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fear of Germs, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Swearing, Therapy, eruri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 02:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17541314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeteranKlaus/pseuds/VeteranKlaus
Summary: It’s not the fights that make Levi decide that it’s done, that he can’t continue like this forever. No, it’s not when Hange finds him in a state and tries to talk to him and he yells, says horrible, terrific things to her. It’s not when he sees a picture of old friends and wonder what they’d think of him. It’s none of that.It’s the crash that does it. For all he’s drunk, he’s never, ever, gotten behind a wheel of a car and drove. It’s dangerous - he hardly cares about himself, but he knew if he hurt someone - some irresponsible kid running on the road, some innocent pedestrian - he could never live with himself.He does it one night anyway. Thankfully, it’s only him that’s hurt, and it’s with Hange trying to hide her tears and the doctor saying any further to the left, even an inch, and he would have been dead upon impact, that he realises he’s got a problem. He needs help.





	Put Your Blood on Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be focusing on alcohol abuse and addiction and rehab to help someone suffering with it, so if that's a sensitive topic, you might want to rethink reading this for your own sake.
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoy it!

It’s something Hange’d been nagging him about for – god – around a year now. Something he’d dealt with since he’d been a teenager, but dealt with in the way Hange disliked for more than double, possibly even triple, the length of time he’d known her for.

He’d ignored her subtle pleas for him to get help, her disappointed, sad looks when he slurred his words, stumbled, passed out. He only had one problem, and that wasn’t with alcohol.

He couldn’t really pinpoint the moment it started. Maybe it had been building up and then bubbled over; the disgust at learning about illnesses and bacteria, not liking his food touching one another, feeling uncomfortable knowing his hands weren’t completely clean. Living in a poorer, dirty area, being pressured to keep the house always tidy yet somehow never keeping it tidy enough and facing the stress, anger and disappointment that followed. Realising people with colds, with the flu, with this and that had touched that door handle, had touched that bannister, that brush, that seat; everything. Knowing that, despite everything he did, he was always filthy. Did you know flies can hold over 600 different kinds of bacteria?

It got to a point that he was carrying hand wash and hand sanitizer everywhere, cleaning his hands after opening a door, cleaning his pen that someone had borrowed, scrubbing his shower with a toothbrush for over an hour. He needed a distraction, and at first it was fidgeting, and then cigarettes – he refused to look up whatever bacteria was in and on cigarettes, because the scratch in his lungs and throat distracted him for a blissful moment – and then alcohol. Alcohol was used to sterilize things; it was wholly clean, and if he drank enough, then it made him forget it as well. He’d do a shot here and there, have a healthy glass of wine with dinner, sometimes lunch too. If he’d gone out for the night and someone on the train had coughed nearby, if someone was sick, if a fly landed on his cup or he touched something dirty, he’d drink a little more to forget it, to clean his insides that shrivelled in disgust.

It was no problem, though. Not really, even if most days his head spun and he stumbled, missed grabbing something the first time, if his words slurred, or if he vomited and passed out. He had never gotten ill from it, never hurt someone else, never fully forgot a night. He could stop if he wanted to; he just didn’t want to.

He met Hange when he was job-searching. She had been working in a place he worked at for a short while, and she introduced herself to a pale Levi and refused to stop tormenting him with her presence. They’d gotten pretty close over the past couple years, and she’d only really realised the extent of his alcohol use – not a lot, not extreme, controlled – and had been ‘subtly’ trying to get him to stop drinking so much. She’d come over for dinner and lunch, make smoothies, pour a large glasses water or juice, and then another. Sometimes she’d actually take bottles out of his cupboards and fridge and take them away from him.

“I know you’re a party animal, Levi,” she’d say with a forced chuckle, “but this is a lot, even for you. How about some nice tea?”

“I’m gonna have to get you some Alcoholics Anonymous membership at this rate.” A tense laugh, worried eyes.

She’d come to his apartment with a takeaway to surprise him, and end up peeling him off his couch, putting a bottle away and helping him into bed.

“Maybe you should cut down for a little,” she’d suggest, “for my sake? It’s almost worrying how many times we’ve had this same situation.”

Always dancing around the subject, making a forced joke of it, little suggestions, pleads.

He really ought to take Hange out for a nice meal, or a movie, or buy her something.

He knew he was horrible sober, but drunk, with Hange prodding at his drinking which, deep down, he knew was excessive, he said some utter despicable things.

_Hange’s footsteps were loud as she entered his house. Her boots were probably caked in mud and filth and dirt. “Oh, Levi! I brought indian food today! Where are you?” Footsteps closer to the bathroom, and he heard her gasp, could tell she was grinning._

_“Sitting on the can? I thought you would have been waiting for me!”_

_The door, however, was slightly open, and when he didn’t reply she pressed further, and then nudged the door open. “Levi – shit.”_

_Her boots were muddy. Filthy. Dragging dirt throughout his entire apartment. Germs from town where drug addicts threw up and mutts pissed and pollution tainted everywhere. And they were a couple feet from his face, and he was breathing heavily and probably giving him some chest infection. His stomach twisted and the shards of a broken Jack Daniels bottle, stained slightly pink from the cuts on Levi’s hand, crunched under Hange’s disgusting boots as she came closer and hooked her tainted hands under his arms, pulled him up just in time for him to empty his stomach into the toilet in the same fashion he’d done just fifteen minutes prior._

_“God, Levi,” Hange said, disappointment clear in her tone. “This is too much, Levi. Fuck. I knew – I knew something was up, we need to talk about this you need – let me get you help –“_

_Levi tipped himself away from the toilet, heard the lid close, and glared at Hange. “I don’t need,” he gritted out, stared at her hands gripping his forearms, “any god damn help.”_

_He used the toilet to push himself to his feet, and Hange’s grip tightened when he swayed, caught himself on the wall and smeared small traces of blood on it._

_“Levi, look at you,” Hange pleaded. There was probably dirt under her nails digging into his arms, her hands weren’t washed, and it sent shivers through him._

_“And so what, Hange? I got drunk. Everyone does. Fuck off.” When he tried to shove past her, she strafed to block his path._

_“But not this much – let me see your hand, it’s still bleeding –“_

_“Don’t – don’t touch me. You’re filthy, it’s disgusting.”_

_“What? Levi I’m not even dirty –“_

_“And your fucking shoes.” His stomach lurched again. It was hard to get mud out of carpets, too. And they were wet from filthy puddles where bugs had drowned and shat in. His hands shook and he swallowed dryly. He needed another drink. He needed to pass out._

_Hange’s face showed hurt, and she stepped back. “Do you want me to take them off?” She asked, quietly, and Levi shoved past her and stagger out of the bathroom. He heard the toilet flush and then Hange followed out, shoes off and set aside._

_“Just fuck off,” he hissed pathetically over his shoulder, and he made his way into the kitchen, stumbling and swaying dangerously. His hip bumped into the counter, suddenly so close to it, and he hissed slightly before leaning against it. He opened his fridge and reached for a can of – something, he didn’t bother to read it. Before he could even open it, however, it was plucked from his hands and he whipped around to glare at her. He opened his mouth to protest, but Hange cut him off._

_“You’ll get even more ill if you drink anything more,” she said, “and I don’t think you should have any of this in your house at the moment.”_

_Anger flared in him once more, and he raised an eyebrow, cockily asking her; “and what the fuck does that mean?”_

_“I mean,” she said, sternly, “you’ve been drinking way too much lately. It’s worrying, Levi. I’m worried for you. I think you need help, because this is – this isn’t good, Levi.”_

_Levi snorted, rolling his eyes. “You hardly fucking know me, Hange. You have no right to say I need ‘help’ – I’m perfectly fine. Don’t you dare say-say anything about what I do, or – or-“_

_“Or what, Levi? What will you do? You need my help and I want to help you.”_

_Levi’s short nails dug crescents into the palms of his hands, and he pointed in the general direction of his door._

_“You can get the fuck out, bitch. And don’t fucking come back if you’re going to be such a filthy little pest and pretend that you know shit about me or that we’re friends,” he sneered, lips curling upwards slightly in disgust._

_Hange’s lips twitched and her breath caught. Even she could only take so much before her patience wore thin._

_“Levi, you don’t mean that-“_

_“Do you want to fucking bet?” He snapped, and slammed his hand down on the counter next to Hange. It made her jump, and when he stepped up to her, so close their toes almost touched. Even though she had height on her side, she still took a step back, unnerved._

_“Levi-“_

_“Get out.”_

_She looked down briefly, took a breath to steady herself. “Levi, please-“_

_“Get the fuck out of my house!” He yelled, then, and stepped forwards again. When she didn’t move he pointed towards the door. “And don’t think that I ever want you to come back here. Go! I don’t need you! Get out!”_

_His yells chased at Hange’s heels until she grabbed her shoes and all but ran out, the door slamming between them and he was alone again, chest heaving and room spinning._

_The next morning he’d felt physically sick with how he’d treated her, and he’d spammed her with texts and calls and voice mails until she responded. She came back over to his and his guilt overwhelmed the germs they shared as he held her tightly and apologised even if she said it was fine. She took what alcohol he had in the house away with her, and Levi let her, and still felt horrible._

The worst thing was, that wasn’t even the last time he’d yelled at her, and he’d said and done worse things over the next year or so with her. Still, she’d never relented with him, even if it made no progress. Still, she tried and she was always there to pick him back up each time.

No, it wasn’t calling Hange horrible things, yelling at her and intimidating her, threatening her and seeing legitimate fear in her eyes when he was drunk and angry.

It was the crash.

In all his years of drinking, Levi had never, ever, gotten behind the wheel of a car and drove. He didn’t care about his own life that much, but he knew he could never forgive himself if he hurt some irresponsible teenager running on the road, an innocent pedestrian or, god forbid, some clueless child that forgot to look. He would never be so reckless as to put other peoples lives at risks, and yet, one night, he did it.

He could hardly walk in a straight line, had bruises growing all over his knees and arms from how many times he’d fallen over or bumped into something, and he still got into his car and drove.

He was just lucky it was so late that there weren’t many cars on the road with him. His hands slipped on the wheel, dragged it left and right and swerved across both lanes, heard horns honking at him occasionally and a yell from the open window of an overtaking car. He probably drove for about twenty minutes before his head began to droop, his eyes shut. His forehead hit the steering wheel and his foot pressed heavily on the gas.

When he woke up, there were flashing lights and sirens and a paramedic at his broken window, trying to get his attention. Everything hurt and when he looked away from the paramedic – he couldn’t hear whatever he was saying, anyway, unless he did a damn good impression of an eerie ringing noise – he saw that there was a tree branch impaled through his windscreen, close enough that he could slump against it and pass out again. Across the road there was a group of teenage boys that had had a beer or so and been playing football and they were getting witness reports taken before being ushered away from the crash. The realisation hit him later in hospital that, if he had just leaned a bit to the right, pulled the steering wheel slightly, those kids would have been in hospital next to him.

Hange’s eyes, wet and red with tears, pleaded with him in a sterile hospital room. The only place that was clean, safe.

“Levi,” she had said, “please. I don’t want to see you like this. You could have died. Don’t – don’t make me have to go through that.”

He was uncomfortably numb from painkillers, but not numb enough to detach himself from the guilt. He squeezed Hange’s hand and nodded. He licked his dry lips and admitted, for the first time; “I need help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this first part, feel free to leave a comment! It lets me know you guys actually enjoyed it and want to see more!


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